The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [165]
Ilsun nodded.
“You can have her as often as you want, but it’s been obvious by the thinness of the soup that you’ve been neglecting household expenses. You’ve been neglecting your family. It pains me that you must be reminded to fulfill your primary responsibilities. You may do as you please once your first duty is met. She’ll be a costly night-bride. You’ll have to work very hard.”
Ilsun bowed deeply to the floor, tapping his forehead on the mat. “Thank you, Abbuh-nim. I’ll prove to you how hard I can work. I’m indebted to your wisdom and understanding.”
“Go.”
With his head down, Ilsun stood and backed out the door, bobbing. Han turned his eyes, but not before he was sickened by the giddy joy that he himself had caused to appear on his son’s flushed cheeks.
Night Demons
APRIL 1940
A WARM BREEZE SHOOK THE TENDER LEAVES OF THE ROSE-OF-SHARON bushes bordering the kitchen garden. I wrapped my skirt in a sand-colored apron and squatted, tilling with a bamboo hand-hoe. When the home inspectors began collecting metal goods, garden tools were among the first items to go. I was grateful for the childhood years spent outside with Byungjo, watching his able hands fashion tools from bamboo, sticks and hemp rope. Mother and I planted cabbage, cucumber and squash. The warm wind smelled green and soft, but the earth was still frozen in places where the winter clouds had lingered. I broke up those clumps as if beating them into submitting to spring.
From the porch, Dongsaeng called a cheerful goodbye and sauntered off, a wrapped scroll strapped to his back. I waved and smiled at his exuberance. Everyone seemed pleased with him lately. Whatever had happened on that cold evening when Father shouted at Dongsaeng must have been the seed for this welcome change. He was home all the time now, studying, writing and painting. He visited Unsook regularly and showed her his scrolls. His work had grown extraordinary, infused with a rawness that gave energetic power to the strokes. Among those who could afford it—mostly Japanese art aficionados—his reputation as a talent of note was growing. If in the old days calligraphy had been regarded as a lesser art form, now any art created at all seemed a wonder.
“Aigu!” Mother sighed with satisfaction, poking seeds into the soil. “We’ll have squash blossom soup in six weeks’ time.”
I remembered early last autumn when Mother, Unsook and I searched the vines for young fruit, planning delectable salads of cucumber gimchi and squash pickled in chilies. Unsook had gathered squash blossoms and twirled them in her slender fingers. White moths fluttered in the light that bathed my sister-in-law, a basket of aromatic vegetable flowers on her arm. In her high clear voice, Unsook sang, “Butterfly, butterfly, come fly this way.” She laughed. “Hyung-nim, Sister-in-law, I forget the words! Sing with me.” We sang the children’s song together, Unsook’s breath vital and clear until the second verse brought coughs. She blamed the flower pollen, but I had noticed the stained handkerchief she’d pulled from her skirtband.
I tilled the cold earth and worried. Unsook, whom I called Olgae, Younger Sister-in-law, had grown increasingly weak ever since being quarantined in mid-November. She never complained, but I noticed circles beneath her eyes, and sallow cheeks. Lately her coughing had been typical, the fevers had abated and she seemed otherwise stable, but there was listlessness and malaise. Was it melancholy? Sometimes when I entered the sickroom, she appeared as if she’d been weeping. I didn’t want to ask what was wrong unless she showed her tears. The